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“Not particularly. I also don’t like your appearance, your attitude, your breath, and particularly your body odor. You stink.” She eyed the Zabrak’s intoxicated companions. “As a matter of fact, you all stink. But at least there’s variety to your stench.”

The Shistavanen and Utai exchanged amused glances. “You’re a real hard case,” the Utai said.

“Funny, that’s what the pubtender said. Maybe I need to change my hairstyle.”

The Utai scowled. “Maybe you should be more polite,” he suggested.

“That’s right,” the Zabrak agreed. “Be a shame to see a pretty snowflake like you get hurt when all we want is some nice.” He reached out and grabbed her shoulder again.

Aurra Sing felt abruptly, unutterably weary. She had no time for this. But, she reminded herself, keeping a low profile was paramount when on the hunt. She would give them one more chance. “I told you not to do that,” she told the Zabrak. “Move it or lose it.”

The Zabrak leaned in close, his breath an alcoholic miasma. “Give us a kiss.”

No one saw what happened next. They knew it happened because they could see the results, but it had taken place so fast that when questioned later all anyone could recall was two blurs: one of flesh and one of light.

One moment the Zabrak had been leaning in toward Sing. The next he was staggering backward, staring at his left arm, which had been cut through at the elbow with surgical precision by a single sweep of her lightsaber. His hand spasmodically clutched her shoulder for a moment before falling to the floor.

The Zabrak staggered backward until he collapsed on a divan, staring in shock at the cauterized stump of his upper arm. The other two were momentarily paralyzed as well, but the immobility of shock did not last long.

“Get her!” shouted the Utai as he and the heavy Wolfman lunged forward. Vibroblades flashed, aiming to mutilate and maim.

Moments later the Shistavanen’s head was staring at the variegated ceiling, having been separated from his body. The Utai still stood upright, looking bewildered. Then a hair-thin line of red, straight as a laser, materialized down the center of his body, from head to crotch. An instant later the body’s two halves fell neatly in opposite directions.

The Amanin pubtender spoke into a comlink: “Cleanup in Section Seven-B.”

There was not a lot of blood, the lightsaber having cauterized the massive wounds even as they had been inflicted. Having spilled not a drop of her drink in the course of the melee, Aurra Sing calmly deactivated her weapon and turned to regard the wide-eyed Zabrak.

“I’d have a large drink, if I were you,” she suggested. “The shock will wear off soon, and you’ll want to be self-anesthetized by then.” She paused, then added, “But have it somewhere else.”

The Zabrak, clutching the stump of his left arm, stumbled backward and let the crowd—which had scarcely paused in their frenzied dancing to observe the altercation—swallow him up.

Clipping her lightsaber to her belt, Sing turned, walked back to the bar, and placed several credit slips on the counter in front of the Amani.

“I don’t have time to answer questions. Not from your security, nor from sector police. This should cover any awkwardness.”

A three-fingered hand made the money vanish as deftly as any magician. “What awkwardness?”

She smiled thinly, turned, and headed for the room called the Green Dystopia.

fifteen

The quarters they had taken on the forty-fourth level, Quadrant Q-1, had the virtue of anonymity, if little else. The mixed bag of species that inhabited the surrounding resiplexes provided excellent cover. The cul-de-sac was also sufficiently out of the way to allow Dejah to come and go without notice. Once her Nucleon dropped below the fortieth level, the media mynocks who drew income from harassing the bereaved survivors of celebrity casualties tended to lose interest.

While waiting for her arrival, Jax was assembling the components that Rhinann and Den had managed to acquire. On the surface it seemed a pointless endeavor; the result might look like a lightsaber, but